Donnie Douglas
Columnist
One of the things I have noticed about growing older is that I enjoy more frequent conversations with others who are growing older, and they often center on growing old.
I say enjoy, and most of them I do, but sometimes these conversations get old.
More times than not the conversation includes this reassurance: “Well, you are only as old as you feel.”
It’s offered as a measure of comfort, but in my case, it doesn’t work. Although I can only speculate how it feels to be older than four months shy of 65, I am convinced that my aches and pains – especially my back – are indicative of a more advanced age.
I much prefer this: “You are only as old as you act.” I have always felt that my best defense against aging has been my immaturity, which the years have not vanquished.
Aging, of course, cannot be escaped except by dying, nor can its constant reminders that extend far beyond the daily aches and pains that for me are akin to white noise.
Such as:
— The weather: I used to know the weather only when it arrived, but now I check the forecast frequently, compulsively, although it rarely has changed 15 minutes later.
— Sleep: I get less of it, and it is deepest when I am in a recliner, not a bed. An afternoon nap is a must.
— Memories: I find myself recycling stories more and more because I no longer produce any that are worthy of sharing.
— Regular doctor’s checkups: There is more drama.
— Alcohol: It used to, depending on the volume of intake, make me progressively dumber. Now it mostly makes me lethargic.
— Social Security: I get my check the fourth Wednesday of every month, when I gleefully check the bank account to make sure the government continues to pay back my interest-free loan.
— Medicare: I am bombarded with correspondence concerning Medicare and am told by my friends who are on it how great it is. Then I tell them I prefer my current health insurance, which costs me nothing since it is tethered to my income. Nada. Zilch. That’s right. Thanks Obama.
— Old friends: A Facebook friend frequently posts pages from the Pirateer, the Lumberton High yearbook, from the decade of the 1970s. Scrolling through those pages elevates feeling old into an entirely different dimension, especially when you realize how many classmates haven’t grown old.
But my most-dependable reminder is a texting group of five friends from my days in college, four fraternity brothers and the widow of a fifth, all of whom will remain anonymous because of legal concerns. Texts are frequently of our daily health battles, and I counted among the group four artificial knees and three artificial hips, although that might be an undercount. I know two new knees are pending.
I boast that I still have all original parts, at least when it comes to bone and organs. I do have some cow tissue that was used to patch together my aortic valve and keeps me upright.
The more attentive of you might have picked up that with my 65th birthday is approaching – Aug. 26 for those who want to give me a present, although I accept presents year-round. Then I will be confronted with one of life’s landmark decisions, one that will have an impact several times each week.
I will be eligible to move from the regular men’s tees to the senior tees, chopping almost 800 yards off the length of Pinecrest Country Club, and putting a wedge into my hand more frequently.
Most golfers look forward to the move forward, but I am hesitant, not only because I am better with an 8-iron from 140 yards than a wedge from 90, but because this is another concession to Father Time, and will be one more constant reminder of my slow march toward infirmity and Depends.
Also, thanks to golf technology, I still hit the golf ball as a sexagenarian with a balky back as far as I did when I was 28 years old, so it seems a bit like cheating. But there is also the practical matter of trying to win the 2-dollar Nassau. So, I have a few months to contemplate.
Now if today’s column tricks you into thinking I am distressed about my advancing age, you have not been tricked. Getting old sucks.
And I do not want to hear how “getting old beats the alternative.” There is no first-hand testimony in support.
Donnie Douglas is the former editor of The Robesonian. He can be reached at [email protected].